The rapture and agony of National Hunt racing are on display at Cheltenham as
Quevega makes history less than an hour after Our Conor lay dying on the
turf

Two moments, 40 minutes apart, fixed us to the Cheltenham see-saw of rapture and agony. In the second, the iron mare Quevega came snorting up the Cheltenham hill to win for the sixth consecutive time at the Festival. In the first, Our Conor lay dying on the turf.

A potentially vintage Champions Hurdle to revive the golden age of the 1970s turned out to be an unsatisfactory contest and a sad spectacle, with last year’s easy Triumph Hurdle winner, Our Conor, destroyed after a serious back injury sustained as the Champion Hurdle field raced away from the stands towards the dappled splendour of Cleeve Hill.

It is not the screens going up that tell you something is badly wrong so much as the flash of fluorescent jackets scurrying to the scene of the accident. The orange and green bibs of stewards and medical staff converged around Our Conor’s fallen body. Before two screens could be erected, we caught a glimpse of Danny Mullins, his jockey, laying gently on the horse’s neck to keep him still.

As the emergency grew in intensity, and seriousness, a J P McManus-owned one-two of Jezki and My Tent or Yours were preparing to fight out the two-mile hurdling championship, with The New One (who was impeded by Our Conor’s fall) third and the deposed champion, Hurricane Fly, slogging home in fourth for his trainer, Willie Mullins, uncle of Danny.

Beyond Jezki’s return to the winner’s enclosure, under brightening spring skies, vets worked to stabilise Our Conor’s damaged back. Instinct said it was a noble but hopeless cause.

The feature race of the Festival’s first day was going to have to face the old reality that National Hunt racing is a gallop along the edge of life. With the risks come the thrills. With the safe return comes the understanding of what the sport is all about: “Everyone wishing each other well, and hoping they stay safe,” as one jockey said on the eve of the meeting.

Our Conor was not safe. A mistake in a top-class race killed him, thus bringing death back to the feast. All efforts are made to make Cheltenham as risk-free as it can be for horse and rider and every effort was made to save Our Conor’s life. But he slipped into oblivion just as Willie Mullins was about to send out Quevega to lift and inspire the crowd, who thought her reign was over as Glens Melody hit the front after the last, but then woke the Cotswolds dead with the volume of their shouting as Ruby Walsh drove her on again.

Copies of the Racing Post were turned to ticker tape as punters fired them into the air. The Cheltenham betting ring boiled with passion. At 11-8 on, Quevega will have made no one rich. But even the most hardened Festival punter will put commercial considerations aside for a great champion. Last year Quevega equalled Golden Miller’s record of five Festival wins. Now she stands alone.

By now the screens that had protected racegoers from the gruesome spectacle of Our Conor’s demise had been packed away. But Willie Mullins, who was so candid before this meeting on the subjects of drugs and possible nobbling, struck the right note again in seeking perspective for Quevega’s win.

“It looked the worst,” he said of Our Conor’s fall. “As disappointed as we were after the Champion Hurdle, it’s nothing to the disappointment Barry Connell [the owner], Dessie Hughes [trainer] and Danny must be feeling. There’s disappointment and then there’s that. All our sentiments go to that team. Hopefully they’ll find one as good, quickly.”

Here, in a nugget, was National Hunt racing’s stoicism. Equine deaths are felt keenly, but there is no urge to emote or display self-pity. Sympathies are expressed, the sense of loss is shared, but there is no questioning of the game itself, because they all know there can be no glory without an accompanying context of loss. Cheltenham wins are often cast as triumphs over various kinds of adversity. To win a race here feels like a kind of miracle, because the odds are so heavily stacked against it.

This Festival started with an imperious victory for the Mullins-trained Vautour in the Supreme Novices Hurdle, then a shock for punters with Western Warhorse’s win at 33-1 in the Arkle Chase. More family ties here.

David Pipe, son of Martin, was the winning trainer. The happy pilot was Tom Scudamore, son of Peter. Touched off in second was yet another Mullins big shot, Champagne Fever. Then everyone waited for the Champion Hurdle to revive the great days of Sea Pigeon, Night Nurse and Monksfield.

That hope was dashed for the crowd of 57,098. As Ruby Walsh reminded them: “You can make too much of winning here. This morning was a cold and timely reminder with Jason Maguire [hospitalised in a fall at Stratford on Monday]. There’s a lot more to life than riding winners at Cheltenham.”

Walsh also referred to Tony McCoy’s son Archie, who has been operated on in hospital: “AP showed a picture of Archie before racing and you think: ‘Jesus, thank God my kids are all right at home.’ ”

No one could argue with that. But then something comes along to lift the whole swarm of Festival-goers to a place where a horse winning round Cheltenham can look like two fingers up to danger. Quevega’s victory was that riposte to death.